


One thousand four hundred thirty seven miles, twenty hours and counting

by orphan_account



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, Stupid Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This has been building under his skin for years and miles, some kind of gravitational pull into this kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One thousand four hundred thirty seven miles, twenty hours and counting

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by the amazing [](http://ispeakinternet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ispeakinternet.livejournal.com/)**takethestairs**  , thank you so much!

  
**2003\. October.**

Dave’s not sure what to think of this kid, seventeen years old and so skinny he can see the sharp jut of hip clearly through the baggy t-shirt tossed over his frame; black gloss of hair falling across dark eyes and a voice so big it makes him catch his breath every time they try to lay the track down. Bobby’s giving him a look like he’s lost his mind, but this kid – Andy – his mouth just curls up on one side molasses slow and Dave has to get out of this room before he finds himself with his hands in that hair and a whole lot of trouble laid out on top.

“I just need to get some air. Give me five, okay?”

No one says anything when he pushes out the door into half lit alley and late October chill, sweat dripping a lazy line down his neck toward his stutter stop heartbeat.

 

**2004\. Tulsa.**

They’ve got a new bassist - Neal now to replace Ryan who replaced Jerron who replaced Anthony – the spin cycle spot that’s never been defined enough to matter. Though at the end of the day maybe it’s just him that’s distinctive enough, roughshod voice laid down on CDs littering the streets of Tulsa. Neal is distinctive on his own, rock star image already shuttering out the sweet demeanor he keeps for offstage. He’s also friends with Andy, eighteen now and just a shadow in the studio; a shift of movement on the peripheral instead of a voice curling into Dave’s chest with intent.

Andy’s just watching, hair pushed out of his eyes as Dave sings a song about his brother; his heart on his sleeve one more time, only slightly off beat from the rhythm laid out by Neal’s capable hands on the bass line. He’s just watching, but Dave can feel his chest restricting again and he has to close his eyes, has to look away before he does something stupid.

When he opens them Andy’s gone, an empty space on the other side of the glass behind his own reflection. Neal presses a warm hand against Dave’s back, just a touch of pressure against his shoulder blade.

“One more time from the top, okay Dave?”

He just nods, closes his eyes and gets ready to lay his heart out one more time.

 

**2008\. February.**

“Hi, you’ve reached Andy. If you’re hearing this message I’m probably onstage making sweet music or wandering Tulsa in search of cans to recycle so I can pay my rent. Leave a message after the…. BEEEEP.”

“Hey. Andy. It’s Dave. Right, um. Call me back, okay? I… Yeah. Just. Call me. Bye.”

 

**2006\. Start Over.**

It’s a trip being on stage with Andy. Neal’s as crazy as ever and Josh is cool, but Andy… Andy is something else. Dave was always the front man before, center of attention and happy to be there, but Andy breathes this. He’s got about ten girls ready to fuck him right on stage and probably three or four guys who’d follow him into the bathroom if he paused his glance mid-glide across the room to shadow over broad shoulders instead of soft curves. Dave grins, keeps the beat and does his best to melt into the background of Andy’s voice, dragging his eyes away when that gaze lingers over him ten seconds too long.

After the show, pants around his knees in the last stall of the men’s bathroom, Dave grips his fingers a little too roughly into bleached blonde hair, vanilla perfume and the cloying scent of clove cigarettes staining an unwanted memory into his palms. He bites his lip as he comes, head tipped toward the sky in a plea for mercy. The door slams open, spilling sound in from the bar. No mercy tonight, just Andy’s voice searing into his post-coital brain.

 

**2008\. February.**

“Hey, this is Dave. I’m not here right now but leave a message and I’ll call you back. BEEP.”

“Hey Dave it’s Andy, calling you back. You missed a hot show tonight, but I bet you’re having more fun out there in La La land anyhow. No, really – um, what’s going on. You sound like you’re about to lose it or something. Don’t make me fly out there just to give you a shoulder to cry on… Ah hell who am I kidding. Let me know if I need to catch a flight, man. Call me back.”

 

**2006\. Silver**

He ought to be immune to Andy by now, standing on his peripheral on stage and off practically nonstop over the past six months. He ought to have this out of his system now. Except its Andy and he doesn’t know it but this song’s about him in a round about way; _I’ve never been the kind to let go_. Dave can’t decide if he wants Andy to figure it out or not, but every time their eyes meet through soundproof glass there’s some sort of understanding sliding across his eyes and Dave can’t do anything but look away.

 

**2007\. New Year.**

Dave’s spent the better part of the night collecting signatures in black sharpie on his right arm, Neal’s brilliant idea for girls to ‘apply’ for a New Year’s kiss with him. His left has been decorated with some sort of flame design that’ll take weeks to fully wash off, also courtesy of an already buzzed Neal. He only hopes that he remembers to keep his sleeves down when he sees his mom in a few days, she tolerates the ink already permanent under his skin because nothing’s conspicuous; this sort of overkill would earn him the sort of talking to he hasn’t gotten since he hit the magic number eighteen.

Another girl flashes him a grin and a close up view down her shirt as she scribbles across the inside of his wrist, just flutter light enough to make him want to jerk his arm out of her grasp. She lingers a little too long handing the marker back to him when she’s done, a cloud of something that might be ‘happy’ or some other over worn perfume trailing behind her as she walks away.

Andy plops down in the chair beside him, tilting his head to the side as he watches the extra wiggle in her walk. He sets two beers on the table, nudging one in front of Dave’s face with a clink of glass on glass. Andy takes a drink, tilting his head back to drain the bottle before using it to gesture at Dave’s arm.

“That’s quite the array of… prospective kissers you’ve got there, Mr. Cook.”

Dave shrugs, spinning the marker across the tabletop marked with rings of condensation.

“Yeah I guess. Not sure how I’m s’posed to pick the winner though.”

Andy smirks. “Just close your eyes and point or something. Here, I’ll even make it more interesting.”

Andy grabs the marker off the table, uncapping it with his teeth. At 11:55PM, Dave closes his eyes and points toward his ink covered arm, aiming as far away from the block letters marching Andy’s name across the bend of his arm. He’s not drunk enough for that kind of temptation.

 

**2008\. Changing Lanes.**

“BEEP.”

“Uh, shit. Dave, call me back. I’m in LA. Uh, permanently. I think. Fuck, I can’t do this on your voicemail. Just call me, okay?”

 

**2008\. January.**

It’s supposed to be some sort of quasi-going away party, the awkward press of people crowding into his shared apartment with beer in hand. It’s confusing, because Dave’s sure he only told a handful of people (okay he only really told Andy, not that he’s admitting that to himself yet) and it feels like half of Tulsa is trying to take up the last foot of standing room inside the blank four walls. He can practically feel the air being sucked from his lungs and he has a fleeting thought for his security deposit, but then he decides fuck it because these are his friends, people that bought his CD and came to his shows and laughed at him when he needed someone to laugh, tugged him up from the bottom of the barrel before he drowned in himself. And the head of the pack, the man behind the party has a hand at Dave’s back, a beer in his hand and a sweet slurred voice slipping into his ear; _gonna be fucking great man, know you will_.

And when he looks up, turns in to Andy to catch those forever dark eyes, he can almost pretend that there’s some kind of knowing there, Andy’s name still fading in the crook of his arm because he can’t force himself to wash it away.

 

**2008\. Static Disconnect.**

“We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please check the number and try again. BEEP.”

“Dave….

 

God, I miss you.”

 

**2008\. Rockstar.**

Andy’s apartment is barely big enough for the two of them to stand comfortably in, three different guitars and half a notebook of paper crumpled in a lazy silhouette around the garbage can. Dave grins anyways, shuffles his feet inside a pair of boots he hasn’t had time to break in yet and tries to ignore the slightly rancid smell coming in from the open window.

“Nice place dude. Nothing but the best for your sorry ass, huh?”

Andy feigns a hurt expression, grabbing at his chest through his t-shirt.

“I’ve been wounded by one of People Magazine’s hottest bachelors, my life will never be the same.”

Dave reaches out to punch Andy in the arm, dragging him into a headlock with a mile-wide smile stretching across his face.

“Oh shut up, you’d totally do me.”

The instant the words are out Dave regrets them, his body freezing even though he’s sure his brain’s sending a different sort of signal out.

Andy untangles himself, his hair sticking up in seven directions and his mouth opening and closing like he can’t get the words past his throat.

“Dave..”

Dave looks away, like the door has the answer written on it somewhere, advice from someone who lived here ten years ago and had all the right words instead of the mess sitting across Dave’s tongue. He’s used to swallowing back confessions though, biting his tongue behind a smooth smile.

“We ought to go, the uh.. car’s waiting.”

Andy pulls his jacket on, tugging at the sleeves with more force than necessary.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, you know.”

Dave swallows heavily. “Do what?”

Andy’s fists clench in the air, a line of tension stretching from his jaw to his fingertips.

“That whole _fake_ thing, with your cool smile and ... just whatever.”

Andy brushes past him to pull open the door, just enough body contact to send a shiver racing across the back of Dave’s neck. Andy’s keys jingle as he hooks the carabineer over his belt, a gesture so familiar it makes Dave want to cry. He pauses halfway out the door, fingers white knuckled against the doorframe.

“You think I don’t see you, but I’m not stupid Dave.”

Andy’s halfway down the hall when Dave finds his voice, his fingers gripping the doorframe in a carbon copy of Andy when he stood there.

“Wait.”

Andy stops and turns, the expression on his face showing plain as day that he’s ready for another half assed excuse. Dave closes his eyes, too tired to watch his friendship shatter.

“Tell me then. What – what you see.”

The hitch in Andy’s voice is audible even with the sound of LA traffic rushing by the open window. Dave can’t look still, waiting for all the cracks in his surface to rush together and split him into a million pieces on the floor of a shitty apartment three thousand miles away from home. When Andy speaks again his voice is closer, like he’s leaning against the wall just outside the door.

“I see you, Dave.” He pauses for a beat, stepping impossibly closer.

“I always have.”

Dave can feel his heart speed up, his body flipping over to autopilot as he reaches out blindly for Andy. With his eyes closed he misses on the first try, mouth grazing across Andy’s cheek but then Andy’s hands are on his face, steadying him and guiding him sightless home.


End file.
